Mission Impossible
by starrieroze
Summary: The IMF is shut down when it's implicated in a global terrorist bombing plot. Ghost Protocol is initiated and Clarke Griffin and her team (Lexa Woods, Bellamy Blake, and Raven Reyes) must go undercover to clear their organization's name. (M.I.4 plot cause I'm not creative) more 100 characters than listed, shippable relationships with ALL 4 characters not just clexa & braven.
1. Chapter 1

**Budapest**

There was no escape. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and too many to kill. Any agent would be as good as dead.

Not Costia.

She burst through the door and spent less than a second examining her surroundings before making a decision. She was on the roof, a plain, grey, roof-empty and open, the world below her. And they were close. The approaching sounds of frantic footsteps and senseless shouting enclosed her senses, turning her body numb from chill and fear, her heart pounding steadily like the beat of an exhilarating song. It was not the first time she had leapt off a building and flown through the empty air to a painful crash, but each time was no less hellish for her than the last time.

She felt the sting of a bullet whizzing past her head and pushed her aching limbs harder than she ever had. Two guns, maybe three, fired chaotically at her from behind as she shook the device that would determine her fate. It was ready just as she propelled herself off the building.

Her stomach dropped as time stopped. Bullets flew around her, but they were lousy shots-and she was a master. She flipped her body mid-air to face her shooters head-on and raised her gun faster than the bullets could sail. She shot the three shooters above her in three quick shots just as her back slammed into the blossoming cushion that had saved her life countless times. Despite the stiffening pain, Costia sat up with a smile and secured the satchel that held the most important contents in the world onto her shoulder as she strolled down the alleyway.

As she turned the corner, she found herself face-to-face with a noiseless beauty advancing on her. She had a face of steel, all bones and edges, and eyes like a crystal forest that seemed to see right through her. They were green, green and focused, and they reminded her Lexa.

Costia's lips had only begun to form a friendly smile when the beeping noise from inside her pocket sent her teeth scraping against her tongue. It was a warning siren, a sound that screamed the face of her enemy had been recognized. From years of work, she'd been taught to react to that sound with unhesitant violence, but-

Sudden, blinding pain exploded in her chest. Then again, in the same spot. Her knees hit the ground, she couldn't see, couldn't think-she'd been shot before but just like falling, she never got used to it. She felt a bullet lodge itself into her flesh a third time. Then a fourth, then a fifth, again and again until the gun was pressed right against her stomach and her eyes met her killers. Emotionless green stared her down as the woman fired one last silent shot that sent Costia tipping backwards in immobility. In the back of her mind she felt the satchel being yanked from under her and off of her shoulder, and the presence of the woman drift away.

She was alone, bleeding out on the ground in an alleyway. She let the satchel be taken from her. She'd failed. She'd failed the mission. She'd failed the world. She'd failed Lexa.

And as the world around her melted away, she realized that was the worst part. Her biggest regret.

"I love you, Lexa," she sighed to no one, pretending she was there, wishing it so desperately it hurt more than her wounds.

"I love you," she cried it out like a prayer.

"Lexa.."

And she was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

In a sea of sleeping monsters, only one laid awake that night. If you listened closely, you could hear the scratching of precise carving in the cement prison walls. If you listened even closer, you could hear her breathing. Deep, steady, and longer than they should have been.

Clarke Griffin was a cat on hot bricks, and she willed herself not to jump at every uneven snore her cell mates let out. The carving distracted her-if her scraping rocks together to form slightly smaller and differently-shaped rocks could be called 'carving'. Clarke was an artist, not a sculptor, but the rocks were all she had to busy her restless fingers and keep her heartbeat quiet.

Soon, she thought. Any minute now. Fear, worry, and eager anticipation battled in the pit of her stomach as she waited. Any minute now…any minute now. Clarke sucked in another drawled out breath as she reminded herself she was in good hands. The best hands, in fact.

Because Raven Reyes was her liberator, and she would not fail. There was no one more capable that Clarke had ever known.

At least that's what Clarke told herself. From her experiences with Agent Reyes, she had found that as intelligent, reliable and loyal as she was, she was equally temperamental, nonchalant in the face of crisis, and disobedient. And, as a result of their stubborn heads butting in previous missions, not entirely found of Clarke. Authority and rank meant little to Agent Reyes, and her own moral compass steered her stronger than any orders she was given.

The more Clarke let herself think about it, the more she began to fidget at the thought of her great escape being in the hands of Raven.

So she stopped thinking. She listened to her own steady breathing as she scratched away at her rock violently, shoving her anxiety into her fingers.

 _Any minute now_ , she thought. Hoped. _Any minute now_.

Raven grinned devilishly as her finger tips raced across the keyboard like a skilled pianist-blindly, fluently, without need for thought. It was an art, hacking, one made stronger with years of practice. And there was no better feeling in this world knowing that from those many years she had emerged as the best. The very best at her job than anyone ever was.

That was not to say that she was the best agent. Not by a long shot. She could take a punch or two before her strength gave way, throw a few before her knuckles were sore; she could pull the trigger to kill at close range and _sometimes_ incapacitate in some way or another after a couple shots, and at far range, well, her best chance would be to fire at random and hope for the best. Fighting and killing and violence, as thrilling as it was, had never been her specialty. She had hoped to learn from Agent Griffin. Unfortunately, Agent Griffin was a bitch.

There was a history between her and Clarke Griffin. A black hole of things unsaid and unforgiven. Infuriatingly, Clarke had no idea. Not a damn clue. Never suspected what she'd taken had been stolen, and Raven had never suspected what she'd stolen she would lose.

A difficult thing to bare, letting something deathly important out of your grip for five seconds only to turn around and realize it's been snatched, and then not fighting for it like you should have, and then in the end-after you've accepted that the thief has it now-watching that bitch lose it like it's nothing. And crying silently, tears hardening into shattered glass on your cheeks, because your mouth is sewed shut in professionality.

God, how she used to hate Clarke. Hate that bossy, all-knowing voice of reason, hate the judgment, the ego, the authority she used like a weapon…Clarke was no smarter than her. Clarke was no better. She was not a saint. She was a hero, in every way a hero-with that agonizingly heroic attitude and always a look behind the eyes that shown with the burden of responsibility. Raven had known many heroes in her lifetime. And each and every one of them had this complex, this achingly unreal idea that they were saviors. And they told themselves that was what they had to be. They didn't choose to be saviors, oh no, they were chosen for it-to save and lead the lesser, more helpless, simple people. They acted like they didn't want to be the hero, as if they couldn't just _not_ be the hero. Of course, they would never just not be the hero. They were the heroes. The saviors. It was their destiny. It was what made them better than everyone else, what made them pity-

"Load of shit," Raven grumbled angrily as she typed. She hadn't even realized she'd been thinking about all that shit until she heard herself say it. She quickly scolded herself. This was a rescue mission, to help someone very important, and above all it was her job. Her job, and everything her job meant and stood for, came for her opinions on Agent Griffin. Nor did it involve any small amount of secret bitter resentment.

She willed herself to stop thinking. It made her blood boil to think. Especially considering what she was doing.

So she stopped thinking, and made herself focus.

"Alright. Now for the fun," she muttered. With a few taps on the keys, she unlocked cell 05. She waited. Her eyes darted to the security cameras and then back to the screen that let her control every door in the prison.

Finally, she saw on the grainy screen, a large, burly woman step out of her cell. Raven snickered at the woman's confusion as a shouting prison guard approached to her, carrying a stick. Raven unlocked two more cells.

It didn't take long for the three prisoners to take down the scrawny guard. Raven almost felt sorry. But she smiled anyways as the alarms began to sing. And that was her queue. She smiled, stretching her hands and leaning into the screen till her face lit up like a jack o' lantern and her teeth gleamed of neon blue. She pressed the final key.

 _And let the madness ensue_.

The alarms sent Clarke to her feet immediately. Her cell mates slowly began to rouse. Clarke's heart hammered but she managed to mute her adrenaline with a buzzing calm like waves lapping lazily on the ocean right before the storm. She let the rocks fall to the floor as she stepped up to the bars. She wrapped her cold hands around them-and pushed. It opened. And for the first time in a very long time, Clarke exhaled a shaky laugh.

Clarke could hear the other women below her floor begin to realize the doors had opened. She could hear them as they barged through without hesitation, desperate and feral, and as Clarke leaned over the railing and sucked in a breath as she flipped herself over it and hopped onto the lower level, an indescribable picture began to form. It was like a scene from a battlefield.

The violence around her was incomprehensible. Fists were flying, blood was splattering, and somewhere off in the distance she thought she heard some old jazz she recognized fondly, but there was no time to linger on that. For the guards were screeching as the women roared screamed like monkeys, leaping on top of each other to get to the next victim of their deadly rage.

Guilt swam in her heart as she watched the guards get obliterated, as well as the weaker, confused prisoners whose fate laid in the hands of their aggressive, menacing cell mates. But she tore her eyes away and locked them on to the open exit down the hall. She turned on her heel as sweet relief washed through her, but then a sudden realization stabbed her in the gut.

"Oh God," she whispered and groaned at the same time. "Oh God. Anya."

Raven watched in horror as a scruffy, jumper-clad Clarke turned away from the extraction point. And walked the opposite direction.

"What the…what the fuck. Clarke. _Clarke_ ," she said through her teeth. Her ear buzzed and a soft, calm voice asked, "What's happened?"

"SHE'S GOING THE OTHER WAY-SHE-SHE-SHE'S NOT GOING TO THE EXTRACTION POINT!" Raven yelled with irritation.

"This is Clarke Griffin we're talking about. She knows what she's doing," Agent Wood's gentile voice had always been in startling contrast to her nature in a fight. It always startled Raven, at least. Nonetheless, the comment aggravated her to no end.

"She's delaying the mission."

"Agent Griffin doesn't just _delay missions_. She does what she has to, and you need to trust her," the quiet voice countered.

Raven knew she should not give her colleague a hard time today. It had been a rough day for both of them, Woods especially. But she couldn't keep her mouth shut in time before, "you don't even know her," tumbled out with hostility.

She heard a sigh on the other end, followed by a tired response.

"Do your job, Raven, and I'll do mine, and we'll get this over with faster." Raven didn't bother responding.

Clarke could practically feel the cameras glaring at her as she motioned for the doors in front of her to be opened. What followed was an incredibly awkward staring contest between her and the camera, followed by Raven seemingly giving up after at least half a minute. Clarke would have mouth a 'thank you' but the fact that Raven's refusal to open the door had cost her over 30 precious seconds kept her from doing it.

She shoved her way through the mess of fighters in the hall, only needed to punch but a few to get to the last cell in the hall that she prayed was Anya's, and flung herself inside.

When at first she didn't see her, she nearly broke out into a sweat. Had she just blown the entire mission? It wasn't as if she could've just left without her, Anya was too valuable-

The sound of knuckles crunching into skull that sounded a bit too close to her ear made her whirl around. A large, whale of a woman fell by her feet, and above her stood Anya, her fists and face bloodied-though not a speck of it was her own blood.

Anya flashed her an inhumanly fiendish grin, and Clarke found her breath again. Before either could speak, she grabbed Anya by the arm and dragged her through the chaos.

A guard lunged for her, and she tried to block him with her arm, but a silly hesitation to let go of Anya cost her. But it was Anya who took the blow, shouting something and then shoving Clarke to the side forcefully. The guard's stick slammed into the top of Anya's head.

Clarke attacked him, grabbing his face and twisting back his head as she kneed him and flinging him to the side before rushing to Anya's side. The hit she'd taken was not hard enough to knock her out, but it had been hard enough for Clarke to know it was serious. Anya swayed slightly, leaning on Clarke with her eyelids heavy.

"Come on, come on, keep moving," Clarke urged her as she pushed her along. They had been slowed down tremendously by this. Raven must've been having a fit.

"Come on, come on," Clarke repeated as the hurried through the halls. There were guards on their tail now, and Clarke new she would not be able to outrun them with Anya so weak. So as the extraction point neared and she could feel the claws of the guards on her back, Clarke shoved Anya in front of her and used her foot, with all the strength she had, to slam her ahead. Anya rocketed limply through the open door, and Clarke could only pray she did not tumble down the flight of stairs as she made it to the door and slammed it behind her. She heard it lock and turned around to see Anya had managed to stop herself before the steep stairs.

"I'm sorry, Anya, we have to hurry!" Clarke cried out as she grabbed her side and rushed down the stairs, three flights of it, before they reached the point where she hoped another agent would be waiting.

She let Anya lean against the pristine white walls as she watched the floor crumble. Without hesitation this time, Clarke helped Anya into the hole in the floor and felt wet of the sewer floors beneath her feet as she landed. The stench momentarily blinded her.

When her senses adjusted to the smell, she realized it hadn't been the smell at all-it was black as night there. She sensed Anya's disorientation behind her and reached to grip her hand. It was for support and to help each other regain balance, nothing more. Anya and Clarke shared nothing more than mutual respect, the only reason Clarke cared about her at all was her advantages. It had been a long time since Clarke cared about anyone, and she didn't see that changing anytime soon.

Her eyes strained against the blackness and found what she thought must have been the figure of a woman, no taller or shorter than herself-but much more petite, it seemed.

"Who are you?" Clarke rasped.

"Agent Woods." There was a clicking noise, and white light exploded from the woman's hand. "Sorry, I'm trying to conserve the light." She explained.

Clarke could see her clearly now, and was only a little stunned. She'd been right about her height, but petite, well, although she may have been thin, under her tan, ink-covered skin were bulging muscles of steel. She looked like she could dropkick Clarke. This didn't intimidate her, though. She'd seen many men and women far more built and threatening-looking than this agent, most of which could not compete with her own skill. No, what intimidated her about the woman was those eyes. They were big and beautiful, crowned with long lashes, peaceful as a summer forest and focused as a stalking predator, and yet she did not seem like a predator. She just seemed beautiful.

Clarke had been in the field long enough to know that beautiful usually meant dangerous.

"We're in a hurry, yeah, Agent…-"

"Woods-or Lexa, if you'd like," responded the women. She said it not darkly or unkindly, but somehow Clarke still felt unnerved. She decided then that they'd been standing around for far too long already.

"Right. Lexa. Whatever. Let's go," she took Anya by the arm and pushed past the mysterious beauty.

"Do you mind if I ask about your friend?" Lexa asked, catching up to Clarke immediately.

Clarke sped up.

"Yes. Just light the fuse." Agent Woods did obediently.


End file.
